


to thine ownself be true or something

by bizarrebird



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: IT'S ME, M/M, RvB Rare Pair Week, hey guess who likes weird obscure ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 12:12:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10899117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bizarrebird/pseuds/bizarrebird
Summary: The course of true love is awkward and prone to tripping over itself, as the great William Shakespeare might have thought before hastily writing something more profound.





	to thine ownself be true or something

It’s Agent Washington’s idea to have the generals shadowed by a member of the other army. 

“You’ve both been running things… quite differently,” Washington says, tone clearly indicating he’s trying very hard not to say what he actually thinks of the way they’ve been running their armies. 

Doyle doesn’t have to even look to know Kimball’s bristling, but he can’t exactly argue with the statement. He’s never claimed to be a military expert. In fact, with Locus gone, he feels quite blind when looking at battle plans. Kimball at least has some level of experience, but he feels like a child thrown into the deep end of the pool being told to swim. 

Maybe this will help keep his head above water. 

Agent Washington shifts a little uncomfortably, obviously picking up on the irritation radiating off Kimball. “If you have a lieutenant shadow the other general, they can give you first hand observations on how you both manage things, and they can also offer advice on what they’ve seen work for their own forces. It should make integrating your forces easier if we start there. It might also help the other side see the two of you as people.”

“The idea does have some merit,” Doyle says slowly, risking a glance at Kimball. “Would these lieutenants also act as a sort of… go between for the two of us?”

Washington blinks at him, head tipping slightly to one side. “I suppose they could. But the two of you should still try to--”

“I’ll do it.” Kimball’s sharp interjection isn’t entirely surprising. 

Doyle nods. “As will I. I shall pick one of my best lieutenants--”

“Actually,” Washington says quickly, throwing up his hands. “I think it might be better for Carolina and I to discuss the picks with the two of you separately.” 

For a moment, Doyle almost wants to be insulted. Is he suggesting that he would send someone subpar for the job? Then again… he wouldn’t put it past Kimball to pick someone with the intent to make things as difficult for him as possible. 

Maybe Agent Washington makes a good point. 

The meeting wraps up shortly after that and Doyle leaves maybe a little too quickly to start putting together a list of people he could spare. It’s not that he wants to send a substandard lieutenant to assist Kimball. And it’s also not that he believes any of his people are in fact substandard. But… many of them have been in this fight longer than he’s been a general. He’s been leaning on his forces more than he ought to, something he’s painfully aware of now that his biggest crutch has been yanked away, leaving him to flounder. 

If he’s being honest, Doyle doesn’t even know most of his troops by name, something he knows for a fact Kimball prides herself on. And he can’t begrudge her that. She’s a soldier, she’s served in the trenches with the rest of them. They respect her, but Doyle? He’s a pencil pusher and he knows his people know it. 

He retreats to his office, head bowed, datapad clutched tightly to his chest. Nodding to his assistant, he hesitates in the doorway. “Any messages for me, Sinclair?” 

With a soft hum, the lieutenant scrolls through the datapad in front of her. “Nothing of immediate concern, sir. There’s a few reports from Tobin’s squad, but nothing urgent. Oh, Colonel Sarge did ask you to message him when you get the chance, something about… um, painting the motorpool red for some reason?”

Doyle fights down a sigh as he nods. “Thank you, Sinclair. If you wouldn’t mind holding my messages for an hour or so, I have some paperwork that needs to be finished.”

“Of course, sir,” she says, offering him a bright smile before turning back to the datapad, typing intently. 

He steps into his office, closing the door behind him as he tugs off his helmet. With a heavy sigh, he walks around the massive wooden desk, fingers trailing over the surface. It wasn’t long ago that one of his major duties was just keeping the desk polished for the last general. But now here he is, sitting behind it, feeling far too small for the massive chair.

Leaning back, Doyle runs a hand through his hair. It’s a miracle his auburn locks haven’t started going gray yet, he used to be so proud of that. But that’s so trivial now. Almost everything he once cared about (still cares about) is now. What does it matter if he’s lost his favorite book when his men are out there losing their lives? He isn’t cut out for this.

But there’s no one else he can put that burden on. 

Doyle inhales deeply, trying to steady himself as he grabs the datapad again. Stiff upper lip. He has work to do. Like deciding which of his lieutenants he can spare without falling apart. The list is not a long one, and he’s sure Agent Washington will gently suggest several more people to add to it. But at least he gets it done. 

Which leaves him with  nice chunk of time to stare at the ceiling and wonder which one of Kimball’s men is going to be foisted upon him. God, this is going to be a nightmare. 

* * *

John Elizabeth Andersmith is, well… not what Doyle expects. 

Agent Washington schedules the meeting and Doyle does his best to keep his held head high and not trudge into the room like he wants to. Lieutenant Park follows along behind him, ever the good soldier. He doesn’t like picking her for this assignment. She’s young and easily flustered. Kimball could tear her to pieces. 

But Washington and Carolina had insisted she was the best fit. 

She stands at attention at Doyle’s side as they wait for Kimball and her pick to arrive. He gives her a sideways glance when he’s mostly sure the Freelancers aren’t paying attention, their focus on the AI hologram flickering between them. “Are you sure you’re alright with all this, Park?”

“Of course, sir. Inter-army communication is so,  _ so _ important right now. I’m happy to do whatever I can to help.” And there’s that earnest quality there, the one Agent Washington had pointed out when he’d suggested her to begin with. 

Doyle let out a breath as he nodded. “Right you are, lieutenant. I’m sure you will prove to be more than up the task.”

She snaps off a salute, beaming at him. “I won’t let you down, sir!”

“I’m quite sure you’re right.” Because she’s been one of his best since he had the mantle of general set on his shoulders. Hopefully Kimball won’t be too rough with her. Carolina had said it shouldn’t be a problem, but the thought of sending her off is not a pleasant one. Doyle’s stomach has been in knots all morning, and it’s not made any better when Kimball finally arrives. 

A few snappy remarks flit through Doyle’s head at her lateness, but they come to a grinding halt when a mountain of a man follows in behind her. “Goodness gracious,” he mutters to himself. 

Washington and Carolina are drawn out of their conversation, greeting Kimball with a slight nod. “Alright, since everyone’s here--uh, lieutenants, if you wouldn’t mind introducing yourselves,” Washington says, glancing between Park and the giant. 

The rebel salutes with such force, his hand strikes his helmet with a soft clang. “Permission to speak, sir?”

Washington exchanges a look with Carolina, who Doyle’s almost certain is trying not to laugh. “Uh, granted, Smith. You don’t have to salute though, you can just say hello to General Doyle. You too, Park.”

“Of course, sir.” The man ducks his head a little, then crosses the room, sweeping off his helmet and tucking it under one arm. He’s younger than that deep voice sounds, or he at least looks it. His hair is neat, cut short and precisely maintained. There’s a long scar running down the left side of his face, but there’s a brightness to his eyes that Doyle can’t remember seeing much in any of his soldiers anymore. 

He’s… well, quite handsome, actually. Doyle just blinks at him for a few moments before he realizes that low, rumble of a voice is speaking again. “--John Elizabeth Andersmith, at your service.”

“Oh, um, yes, pleasure to meet you, lieutenant. General Donald Doyle--but ah, you already knew that, I assume. Yes, well, quite happy to have you.” Doyle fumbles only a little as he reaches to shake Andersmith’s outstretched hand.

The grip is firm, but not crushing, unlike most of the rebels he’s been made to greet. And the smile on Andersmith’s face is… shockingly genuine. Doyle’s quite sure none of the rebels have looked at him like that before. He realizes after a moment that the handshake has been going on a bit longer than necessary and quickly drops his hand, trying not to look as sheepish as he feels. 

He glances around Andersmith, trying to get a glimpse of Park and Kimball. His lieutenant looks to be talking rather excitedly about something. Kimball looks a little baffled, her hands on her hips, but she hasn’t started shredding Park into pieces from what he can tell. Hopefully that’s a good sign. Doyle honestly isn’t sure. 

With introductions over, they move onto the rest of the meeting. It’s a little odd having Andersmith at his shoulder. He stands ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back, eyes moving about the room intently. Doyle recognizes the posture. The generals before him had had it, that military drilled in focus. Honestly, it’s not the sortof thing he had expected to see out of any of the rebels. They’re, well… rebels. They aren’t meant to be organized and put together. 

Then again, it’s far more easy to generalize and assume things from a distance. And Doyle’s starting to get the idea that there’s a few other reasons the Freelancers had insisted on this idea. 

* * *

Andersmith is shockingly helpful. But not in the patronizing way most of Doyle’s captains are. He knows what the troops whisper about him behind his back. None of it’s surprising, and… most of it isn’t wrong. Most days, he’s still guessing at what he’s doing. Lately he’s been starting every morning by sending off frantic messages to Washington for advice. 

It’s pitiful and embarrassing, but it’s all he can do to keep himself afloat. 

But Andersmith is different from, well, just about everyone. It’s obvious from the very next morning when Doyle heads into his office and finds him already waiting there. Doyle hasn’t had his morning tea yet, so he’s a little out of sorts as he mumbles his usual hello to Sinclair, missing the warning she tries to give him as he steps into the office and jumps a foot in the air when he finds Andersmith already there in the chair in front of his desk. 

Andersmith is up in an instant, greeting him with a well practiced salute. “Good morning, General Doyle.”

“Oh my--and a very good morning to you as well, lieutenant. Erm, at ease. Please have a seat,” he says, awkwardly waving a hand at the seat Andersmith just hopped out of. But the lieutenant looks to have no problems with taking it again. 

Doyle does his best not to awkwardly shuffle around his desk to his chair. He’s definitely sitting up straighter than usual, because Andersmith is opposite him with posture so perfect it makes Doyle’s shoulders ache a little just looking at him. Clearing his throat, Doyle grabs a stack of papers on his desk at random and starts shuffling through them, because god he needs something to do with his hands. 

“So, I suppose for today you can just, well… come along with me and observe. I do have quite a few matters to attend to,” he says, trying to sound far more confident than he actually is. It sounds surprisingly convincing to his own ears. 

… No wonder the men think he’s arrogant. He certainly sounds it. Perhaps he ought to work on that. 

“Permission to speak, sir?”

“Oh, ah, granted. Of course. You don’t need to ask, lieutenant. You may speak freely whenever you like.”

“Thank you, sir.” Andersmith pulls his datapad from his armor, pulling up something on the screen. “I’ve taken the liberty of asking Sinclair for your schedule. I thought it best to familiarize myself with it as quickly as possible.”

“Oh. How very proactive of you. That should be, erm, quite helpful.” God, if he could get through one sentence without sounding like a ponce or an imbecile, that would be just lovely. It seems rather unlikely though. The day’s only just begun and he’s already making a fool of himself. 

Which… isn’t much different than most days, really. So it’s about par for the course that he should continue to do so even with the enemy observing his every move. No. Not the enemy, he corrects himself. Andersmith is there to assist, and Doyle is surprisingly certain that he means to do just that. 

“So, would you care to remind me what the first item on the agenda is for today? I seem to have misplaced my datapad at the moment.”

“It’s still in your armor, sir.” And somehow Andersmith says it in that bright, confident way of his that makes it sound as though Doyle isn’t an idiot for not noticing that. 

“Oh, yes, of course it is. Very observant.” He does his best not to scramble as he pulls the datapad from its usual slot in his armor. Awkwardly clearing his throat, he pulls up his own schedule. It seems to be about the same as usual: meetings, mission debriefings, and then what’s bound to be yet another embarrassing training session with Agent Washington. 

Which Andersmith will likely be invited to as well. Good. Perfect. Just what he needs, a rebel right there in the room to laugh at him when he’s out of breath after a single pushup. That’s just splendid. 

That deep voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “It would seem the first matter to attend to is a meeting about the state of the current accommodations for the Reds and Blues. Hmm…”

For some reason, Andersmith frowns as he looks over the schedule. “Sir, you don’t seem to have time penned in for meals.”

Doyle blinks at him for a moment. That… should be a jab or a joke at his expense, but it certainly doesn’t sound like one. “Ah yes, typically I eat while I attend to paperwork later in the day, but--”

Andersmith tilts his head slightly to one side, brow furrowing. “You do your paperwork in the mess hall?”

With a slight laugh, Doyle shakes his head. “No, no of course not. I have meals brought to my office. It’s much more convenient that way.”

That just makes Andersmith’s frown grow and Doyle has the distinct impression that he’s done something wrong. “You don’t eat with your men?”

“Uh… well, no. Not usually.”

In an instant, Andersmith is on his feet, fingers moving rapidly over his datapad. “General, it is imperative for morale that you eat with your men as equals. Have you had breakfast yet?”

That’s a trap and Doyle walks right into it because Andersmith is very tall and the light streaming in through the window behind the desk is just doing amazing things to his cheekbones. “I haven’t actually, but--”

“I believe the mess is still serving breakfast. We need to get there asap, general. There’s no time to waste!” 

Andersmith’s boundless enthusiasm sweeps Doyle up and out of his seat and along with him to the mess hall. Half formed protests fall from his lips every few steps, but they keep stuttering to a stop as soon as he catches Andersmith’s eyes. Well, maybe eating with the general population isn’t a terrible idea. Honestly, if Andersmith wasn’t leading the way, Doyle’s fairly certain he would never have found his way to the building that’s been made into a large cafeteria. 

The room is abuzz with activity. Most of the tables are at least somewhat occupied. It takes Doyle only a moment to notice that things are a little… divided. He’s almost certain there’s no sort of seating chart, but one half of the room is very clearly occupied by his own army, and the other half is undoubtedly Kimball’s. It’s almost an exactly even split right down the middle. 

That’s a little disconcerting, honestly. They ought to be coming together, uniting under one banner. But… he can hardly blame any of them. The truce is a temporary one, and it’s always been shaky. And, alright, he hasn’t been doing much to change that. Really though, what can he do? Well, other than setting a better example.

Because… at the moment, he has to admit he’s doing a pretty poor job of that. 

He’s honestly a little hesitant to wander near the side of the room the rebels seem to have claimed for themselves. Unfortunately, going through that side is the only option to get anywhere near the food. Doyle hesitates, but Andersmith walks right in. Given the choice between awkwardly lingering and trailing after him, he takes a breath and follows a long, doing his best to keep his shoulders square and chest slightly puffed out. 

It’s not really very impressive compared to the muscles most of the soldiers are sporting, even with their armor, but it’s the most he can do. At least his hair and mustache are neatly combed, so he has his air of professionalism and class if nothing else. 

Not that either thing helps him at all when he gets into line behind Andersmith and finds himself at a bit of a loss. Typically Sinclair just has a few MREs and some fruit sent to his office. The people behind the counter are… mostly rebels judging by the looks they’re giving him, so Doyle just keeps his mouth shut as they either ignore him entirely or slop far too much of whatever they happen to be serving onto his tray. At least there’s a decent selection of fruit at the end that he can help himself to. That should do nicely. 

“Hmm, let’s see--oh there’s Captain Caboose. This way, sir.” Andersmith starts off toward a waving hand reaching above the crowded tables and Doyle follows after him, trying to ignore the glares piercing into his back. 

Fine, let them. It doesn’t matter what they think of him. Well… alright, it does. That is sort of the entire reason he’s trailing after Andersmith like a lost puppy. At least none of them have said anything. 

The table Andersmith leads him to is just on the rebels’ side of the room, but it seems far friendlier than most of the others around it. Captain Caboose is seated with the other Reds and Blues, along with a few rebels he doesn’t know and… a few of his own people. “Tobin, Schooner,” he greets, with a slight nod, sitting across from them, next to Andersmith. “Pleasure seeing the two of you.”

“Oh, morning General Doyle.” Tobin offers a surprised smile. 

Schooner gives a little salute and goes back to talking to Donut. That’s not entirely surprising. Doyle has seen enough to know that Donut’s made himself quite popular with both his forces and the rebels. All of the Reds and Blues have. Being neutral does seem to have quite a few advantages. If only he had that luxury. 

Although… maybe that’s not particularly fair. 

Breakfast isn’t an entirely unpleasant affair. Andersmith involves him in the conversation and the Reds and Blues are easy enough to talk to… if a bit difficult to keep up with. For some reason, Andersmith hangs on their every word, particularly Captain Caboose. Doyle does his part, chiming in here and there, though it’s clear there’s quite a lot of jokes and quips that he’s not meant to understand. 

He’s in the middle of discussing proper organizational procedures for supply runs with Simmons when Andersmith lightly taps his shoulder. “Not to interrupt, sir, but you have a training session with Agent Washington in ten minutes.”

“Ah, yes, thank you Andersmith. It was very good seeing all of you,” he says, nodding to the rest of the table as he rises from his seat. 

Doyle can’t help thinking that Andersmith may have had a point. He’s still not entirely sure how eating with his men would make them respect him anymore, but… it is rather nice having a bit of company. 

* * *

Training sessions with Agent Washington are always an exercise in frustration and humility. Doyle isn’t a real soldier, he knows that, and he’s bloody well sure that Washington is horribly aware of that as well. Still, he’s never been able to think of an acceptable reason (excuse) to cancel the sessions. 

He can’t deny the fact that knowing how to fight would have its uses. Honestly, before they started, he had only ever fired a gun once, and that had been an accident. His marksmanship still leaves quite a lot to be desired. As does his endurance. And his speed. And, well, just about everything, really. 

At least he typically gets to suffer through the embarrassment alone. But no longer. 

Doyle tries a few times to gently suggest that Andersmith’s time might be better spent elsewhere. “Really, lieutenant, it seemed as though Captain Caboose was very eager to show you… er, what was it he was talking about?”

“His new blanket fort. And I am sure that Captain Caboose has done a magnificent job on it. His constructions are always fascinating. The things that man can do with a cardboard box and a stack of pillows, it’s really amazing, general.” Andersmith shakes his head faintly, the wonder in his voice obvious and… strikingly sincere. 

But then he shakes his head more firmly, turning to Doyle with a smile that nearly makes the general walk straight into a wall as they round the corner toward the gym. “But I can see that later. The captain has invited me to a tea party there tomorrow anyway. Your training is the primary concern, general, and Agent Washington informed me that there are several exercises that would go more smoothly if you had a partner.”

“Oh… did he?” That traitor. 

“Indeed he did. And I am happy to be of service, general.”

“Well, I…” Can’t say no to that smile. Damn. Doyle clears his throat and looks away. “I suppose it would be, ah… beneficial to have a sparring partner other than Washington.”

He’s wrong. So utterly wrong. 

Because sparring means they’re out of armor and in close fitting workout clothing, and he can see every inch of Andersmith’s very impressive arms. It also means being in close quarters. Very close quarters. It’s one thing when they’re simply warming up, Washington guiding them from one set to the next. Well, actually, that in itself is a little embarrassing, because he’s still struggling to do ten pushups in a row while Andersmith powers through sixty beside him. 

At least he never sounds condescending. In fact, his encouragement has that same earnest quality he always does. And Doyle can’t begrudge him enough not to take the hand he offers to pull him to his feet. The motion is smoother and faster than he expects, and he almost stumbles, hand playing over Andersmith’s bicep for balance. 

Face going warm, he quickly steps back, coughing into his hand. “Thank you, lieutenant.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Alright,” Washington says, drawing their attention. Doyle’s half sure there’s a tiny hint of a smirk on the Freelancer’s face. “Let’s move onto some hand to hand practice. Smith, you remember the holds I’ve been showing you, right?” 

“I do, sir.”

“Perfect. I’ve been showing the same ones to the general. I think both of you could benefit from practicing them a bit more.”

Doyle briefly tries to remember if he’s done anything to upset or offend Agent Washington lately. Nothing comes to mind, but he must have done  _ something _ to warrant this torment. He does his best not to stumble over himself as he takes a defensive stance. Andersmith does the same, though his looks far more confident. 

At least the lieutenant is kind enough not to utterly destroy him. 

It’s clear in only seconds that Andersmith’s training goes far beyond his own. He moves with a self-assuredness Doyle only has when giving demeaning lectures or issuing orders he only mostly understands. But he doesn’t flaunt it. No, Andersmith moves naturally, with precision, though Doyle is fairly certain he’s going a bit slower than usual so he can keep up. Just throwing punches and blocking them isn’t too terribly difficult. 

The holds are a little more difficult. Andersmith is quite a bit taller than he is and Doyle can barely reach around his broad chest. And he’s almost certain the hand Washington has pressed to his mouth is meant muffle laughter that’s entirely at his expense. 

“Alright, that’s… not bad,” Washington says, clearly lying through his teeth as Doyle tries to ignore how sweaty his palms are where he holds one of Andersmith’s arms behind his back. “Smith, can you try that grappling move I showed you? It should work well to break this kind of hold.”

“Of course, sir.”

Doyle barely has time to blink at Agent Washington before his feet very suddenly leave the ground. For a brief moment, he’s moving through the air, feeling strangely weightless. And then his back is on the ground and one arm is pinned above his head. A slight weight presses down against his chest where Andersmith’s forearm lies. Oh… well this is decidedly uncomfortable. 

“Good, now try to get out of that, Doyle.” Washington’s coaching leaves something to be desired. 

“Well if I were too--I don’t see how I’m meant to… oh dear.” He blinks up at Andersmith, who just gives him a calm, placid smile. That would be charming if it weren’t for the fact that Andersmith isn’t giving him much of an opening. Actually, he’s been treating Doyle almost as though he’s a serious opponent for most of this training session. 

Brow furrowing, he tries to find a place where the hold is weak. He does still have one arm free, so he could conceivably try to push Andersmith off… as if his twig like arms could move the mountain of a man above him. Well maybe he could try to wiggle free. Testing the hold, he finds very little give. Letting out a huff, he looks over at Agent Washington. “I don’t believe I can.”

“If I might make a suggestion.” Andersmith shifts a little, and the weight on his chest eases slightly. Then two things happen at once. 

In the same moment that Andersmith tries to lean down to do… something, probably adjust the grip on Doyle’s arm, Doyle attempts to sit up. His forehead collides sharply with Andersmith’s temple and stars flash behind his eyes. There’s a slight noise of pain and he’s vaguely aware of Andersmith moving off him, but Doyle’s a bit busy flopping back against mats, hands pressed to his aching forehead. 

Washington makes a noise that Doyle is certain is a choked off laugh. “Well… I suppose that’s one way to get out of that hold. I think that’s enough training for today. Are you both alright?”

With a sigh, Doyle sits up, a bit more slowly this time, still rubbing at his forehead. “I believe I’ll live.”

“Just fine, sir. That was an excellent tactic, general,” says Andersmith, who’s already getting to his feet and offering Doyle a hand up. 

He takes it, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Oh, well… it wasn’t intentional. I am terribly sorry about that, lieutenant.”

“It’s quite alright, general.” Andersmith pulls him to his feet, though Doyle’s a bit more ready for it this time and doesn’t lose his footing. “Accident or not, it was creative and extremely effective.”

“I… suppose I can’t argue with that. Thank you, Andersmith.” He feels himself smiling, and there’s a little fluttering warmth that bursts into being when it’s returned

“Of course, sir. If you like, general, you can just call me Smith. All my friends do.” 

Doyle blinks at him, eyebrows rising slightly. That warm fluttering has grown wings and learned how to soar… and he really needs to read fewer romance novels in his spare time. “Oh… alright then. Smith.”

Agent Washington dismisses them after that, a strange little smile on his face. And that’s something Doyle is just not going to let himself dwell on. Although… it is nice. Having Andersmith--Smith as a friend. Really, he could do with a few more of those. 

* * *

The rest of the day goes surprisingly smoothly. As do the next three. Smith stands at his shoulder attentively in meetings, occasionally even chiming in to offer his own two cents. Which… is a bit surprising, given that most of his meetings are filled with members of the Federal Army, no rebels in sight. But Smith still stands tall, his voice perfectly even and polite. 

Even when some of the people he speaks to aren’t. 

“Well,” Captain Periwinkle is saying, disdain written all over his face, “I doubt you really understand how our supply runs are organized. It’s all very complicated.”

“Yeah, it really is.” Captain Ajam’s usual pleasant drawl has never sounded so condescending. She's not even looking at Smith, instead keeping her focus on her nails. “I know you rebels like to just smash and grab, but we have a little more… strategy over here. Right, General Doyle?”

Lips pressed to a thin line, Doyle smacks a hand down on the table they’re clustered around. Both captains jump, looking at him with surprise. “That is  _ quite _ enough. You are all well aware of the fact that the New Republic are our allies now. Smith is here as my guest and you will treat him with the same respect you show me. Do I make myself clear?”

Ajam and Periwinkle exchange a look that he tries not to pay too much attention to. “Yes, sir,” they say together, sounding more defeated than anything else. 

“Good. Now, if we can get back to the matter at hand…”

The rest of the meeting passes without incident, though it doesn’t escape his notice that the captains are a little more wary now. Neither of them make any more rude comments, or if they start to, they catch themselves and stop. They leave together when they’re dismissed, Doyle hanging back to organize his notes from the meeting. 

He glances at Smith out of the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry about all that.”

Smith’s brow furrows in confusion. “Sir?”

“What Periwinkle and Ajam were saying… that was rather untoward of them. I apologize, they should know better.”

“That’s alright, general. I understand. I can’t say that my friends would have behaved any better,” he admits, sounding a little sheepish. “But I do appreciate you defending me.”

“Of course.” With a slight sigh, Doyle turns, leaning back against the table, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “I’m not certain I deserve that though. I must admit, I haven’t been doing as much as I ought to to make this truce work the way it should.”

“General Doyle, if I may?”

Doyle looks at him, waving a hand for him to continue. Smith, for the first time Doyle can remember, relaxes out of his attentive stance. He moves to lean against the table next to him, crossing his arms across his chest. His brow furrows with thought, lips curling into a frown. 

“This truce is not yours alone. It is up to all of us to make it work. You do set an example for your men, that’s true, but you cannot change the way they feel about the New Republic any easier than General Kimball can change the way we feel about your army. And… with all due respect, I do have to wonder if you would have defended her the way you did me.”

Well… that is a sharp blow, but he can’t say it’s not a fair one. And it is certainly one he deserves, so he doesn’t fight it, instead ducking his head sheepishly. “I honestly don’t know if I would have.”

“I’m not trying to insult you, sir,” Smith says quickly. “I’m simply saying that old habits take some time to overcome. We’ve been in this war for a long time. These things don’t change overnight. However… it matters that you’re trying.”

Smith’s hand lands on his shoulder and Doyle looks up, finding that kind smile on his face that makes his stomach flip in ways that are downright embarrassing. “I… thank you for saying so. But I do believe I could try a bit harder.”

“Then that’s what you should do. Your people will follow your lead, general, if only in action and not in their hearts for now. You just need to have faith in yourself.”

And Smith says it so earnestly, his eyes bright and full of a kind of hope that Doyle isn’t sure his own have ever held, that he can’t argue. Can’t say that it’s not just faith, but years or pain and loss that need to be overcome for him to do that much. But… he isn’t entirely wrong. Taking charge, giving commands, he’s never quite had the confidence to do so without Locus standing behind him, the intimidating force over his shoulder likely the main thing spurring anyone to follow him. 

But that’s gone, and Locus isn’t coming back, nor should Doyle want him to. Maybe an intimidating presence at his side isn’t the only one that will work. 

“I will do my best to… have a bit more faith. I believe ah… changing my own perspective may be necessary as well.” He hesitates, glancing away. “You know, I believe having you assist me is helping there. So… thank you, Smith.”

He risks a glance at Smith and finds that smile even brighter than before. The moment lingers and Doyle feels his face grow warm. There’s a soft ping from Smith’s datapad that shatters it. 

Awkwardly clearing his throat, Doyle quickly looks away. “Ah, I believe that’s a reminder about the next meeting with Agent Washington and General Kimball?”

“I believe you are correct, sir.” The hand on his shoulder squeezes briefly before dropping away as Smith pulls out his datapad. “We should get moving, don’t want to keep them waiting. After you, general.”   
Nodding, he heads out of the room, hearing Smith’s steps fall in behind him. And in that moment, Doyle can’t quite think of anyone else he would prefer to have there. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, I had a lot of plans for rare pair week that I didn't get around too. I'll probably still post the other things at some point, but I wanted to get this one up before the week ended. This is a weird ship, but I like writing both of these characters way too much not to try throwing them at each other to see if something sticks.


End file.
